


catch me

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:35:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24372148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Aziraphale’s hands are in his, and it feels holy, but this time it doesn’t burn. Aziraphale’s holiness never does.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 89
Collections: Anonymous





	catch me

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my google docs since august! kind of nervous about posting this, which is why i decided to do it anonymously. i wrote it for myself bc i was in A Mood and now i've finally decided to share it 
> 
> i hope you enjoy this, i certainly enjoyed writing it!

It’s the way one would kneel when praying; hands clasped together, eyes closed or looking up, leaning against a surface the way Aziraphale is currently leaning against Crowley’s trembling knees. Only Aziraphale’s eyes aren’t closed, nor are they looking for God in the ceiling of the bookshop; it’s Crowley who gets to feel this gaze upon him, this gaze that holds an endless amount of warmth, and devotion, and _love_. Aziraphale’s hands are in his, and it feels holy, but this time it doesn’t burn. Aziraphale’s holiness never does; it only caresses, never intruding the parts of him that cannot take it. 

The room is still and Crowley’s ears are ringing, heart stopped now that he can’t bring himself to keep it going under the overwhelming attention. He barely registers the early morning birds singing just outside the window, signaling that Aziraphale had once again made him lose track of time and spend hours talking about things that seemed so irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but mattered simply because they were talking about them _together_. 

He doesn’t fully remember the threads of conversation that lead them to this exact moment. All he knows is that they were drunk, he brought up being unforgivable, and Aziraphale got on his knees before him, and both of them sobered up out of pure shock. The angel even went through the trouble of banishing the wine bottle from the room, perhaps to stop Crowley from reaching for it in desperation.

The sleeves of his angel’s shirt are rolled up, showing the strong but soft forearms usually hidden under coats and blouses. Crowley focuses on them in an attempt to avoid Aziraphale’s eyes. He has an inkling that they won’t be returning to their previous topic—maybe due to the fact that neither of them remember exactly what it was. It might also have something to do with the unresolved tension in the air, one that’s been there for a long time but has now been brought to light by their unusual position.

“You know,” Crowley says, making an impulsive attempt at speech, “I don’t think you’re supposed to kneel for a demon.”

“I don’t think it matters what I’m ‘supposed’ to do, Crowley. Not anymore.” His voice is soft, but carries so well that Crowley wishes he could get some of that vocal stability for himself, too.

“But it used to?”

“I thought it did.” Aziraphale smiles just a bit wider, his eyes sparkling even without a light to illuminate them. “But I learned that, this whole time, you were the only one that mattered.”

Crowley chokes on air, thinking that he might just discorporate from the words alone. For an excruciating moment he wonders if Aziraphale could be playing a trick on him, but one look into the angel’s eyes shows him so much sincerity that he could drown in it.

Aziraphale shifts in his seat, clearly resisting the urge to wring his hands the way he does when he’s nervous. “I wish I hadn't listened to them,” he continues. “The ones I believed were on my side didn’t care. It’s always been you, Crowley. You always had my best interests at heart, you were the only one who was truly on my side. _Our_ side. I’m so terribly sorry for taking so long to accept it.”

Crowley sputters, almost removing his hands from Aziraphale’s in an attempt to gesture wildly. Almost. “I - you don’t need to _apologise_ , angel, I only --”

“I know you would never expect it from me, even when you should. But you deserve an apology. You deserve so much more than what you have been given.” There’s a furrow to Aziraphale’s brow, and a frown in place of his soft smile. Crowley wishes he could reach out and touch the distressed wrinkles with his thumb, see the pain and guilt melt away. 

His heart remains still, though his chest tightens at the words. His corporeal form feels too small for the sheer emotion coursing through it, the heavy _something_ unraveling between him and his angel, breaking out of its shell. Crowley swallows with great effort.

“And what do you think I deserve, exactly?”

“Everything,” Aziraphale says. “Everything and anything you could want.” His hands squeeze Crowley’s, a thumb brushing across Crowley’s knuckles. Crowley can’t take his eyes off Aziraphale’s mouth.

“What if I…,” Crowley licks his lips and draws a shaky breath, “what if I only want one thing?”

A blush paints Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Then you shall have it—me. You can have me, Crowley.”

The birds stop chirping, and everything seems to stop for just a moment before Crowley exhales. “Aren’t you afraid, angel? Afraid you’ll Fall?” 

“No,” Aziraphale says, quiet but strong. “The possibility has always been there, for as long as we have known each other.” He looks down at Crowley’s hands, smiling at them. “And if I Fall, I know who will catch me.” He lifts his head again, and it feels like being shot in the chest, but somehow it feels better than anything else.

Crowley’s eyes feel strained, perhaps from a build-up of tears, and for a moment he acknowledges his lack of protective sunglasses, but chooses to let the thought go. 

It’s his turn to squeeze Aziraphale’s hands, like a promise. _Of course I would catch you_ , he thinks.

“This all feels too good to be true,” he says instead of voicing the thought.

“It does, doesn’t it?” 

And for a while the words hang in the air, the _something_ still trying to worm its way out of its confines while the birds keep on singing, and Crowley thinks that the early morning sun coming in through the blinds makes Aziraphale look exceptionally gorgeous. 

The angel smiles, and Crowley longs to press his lips to the corner of his mouth. A voice in his head tells him that he _could_.

Aziraphale speaks before he gets to properly consider the idea.

“I don’t know what the future holds for us, Crowley,” he says. Crowley’s name sounds divine coming from his lips. “But I do know that whatever it is, I don’t want to face it without you. History has shown, time and time again, that everything is better when you’re here. Even the lousiest things feel more bearable in your company.

“So even if Heaven and Hell both smite us, I will still be happy I chose you. And deep down I always knew that in the end, I would have to choose, one way or another. I think I also knew that you would be my first choice, no matter the options given.”

“It didn’t seem that way for a while,” Crowley says, though not out of anger. It comes from the hole in his chest that’s resided there for thousands of years, born of rejection and love that was reciprocated but not accepted. It’s a sadness that hasn’t left but knows to keep hidden.

“I know,” Aziraphale says, seemingly not surprised or offended by the comment. His eyes drop to Crowley’s chest, as if he can see the remains of a broken heart. “I’m sorry, Crowley, for hurting you, for pushing you away. I would like to make it up to you.” He slowly moves his hand, sliding up Crowley’s palm and onto his wrist, gently running his fingers up and down the veins. 

Crowley shivers under the touch. “You’re forgiven,” he says. “Though I’d like it if you made it up to me.” 

The air stills when Aziraphale looks at him again, neither of them sure what to do. Crowley’s hands itch, wanting to touch but not knowing _where_ or _how_ ; maybe grip the back of his neck, or cup his cheeks, or caress his hair, or —

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale breathes. And in a moment of courage, he leans up with intent, unable to reach Crowley’s lips all on his own but reaching out, trusting that Crowley will meet him in the middle.

And Crowley does. Of course he does.

Aziraphale lays a hand on his chest when he leans down, brushing over the skin that peeks out from beneath his shirt. His eyes are on Crowley’s lips, like they have been hundreds of times before, only this time he doesn’t look away after getting caught. 

Crowley’s heart starts beating again when Aziraphale kisses him.

It’s light and soft at first, hesitant on both sides, but very soon Crowley decides that he’s not close enough. The hand still holding Aziraphale’s moves up to his shoulder, then to the soft hairs at the back of his neck. The touch makes Aziraphale kiss him harder, leaning up as much as he can while kneeling on the floor. Crowley thinks that they ought to get more comfortable, but quickly forgets the idea when Aziraphale strokes his neck. 

“I’m yours,” Aziraphale whispers between kisses. “If you want, that is.”

“I want,” Crowley says, croaks, eyes half-lidded as he presses their foreheads together.

There’s a smugness to Aziraphale’s smile that Crowley tries his best not to think about. He gently moves his fingers along Crowley’s neck, making Crowley’s brain turn to complete mush.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says.

“You love everything,” Crowley says, just to be cheeky, and maybe he wants to hear it one more time.

“You of all people should know that I most definitely do _not_ ,” Aziraphale huffs, pulling away the slightest bit. “And I do love you quite a bit more than I could possibly love anything else in the world.”

Crowley smiles, unable to resist leaning in for another kiss. Aziraphale’s hand is still resting on his neck, and Crowley gets lost in the feeling before remembering he needs to use his words.

“I love you, too,” he murmurs. “Ever since...fuck, ever since we stood on that wall looking over the first humans.”

His angel smiles wider against his lips. “Oh, my darling,” he sighs. “My love.”

Crowley’s mouth dries. He can only breathe out a weak sigh of _Aziraphale_ before he presses another kiss to his lips. When they pull away, Crowley looks around groggily, as if waking from a dream.

“It’s six in the morning,” he notes.

“And what a beautiful morning it is,” Aziraphale says with a fond smile. The sunrise is just outside the window, but Aziraphale’s eyes are on Crowley.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! this could definitely use some editing but i just wanted to share something nice and fluffy with everyone now that i suddenly have the courage to post!


End file.
